


Lost

by chickwriter



Category: due South
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-19
Updated: 2008-10-19
Packaged: 2017-10-02 02:12:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chickwriter/pseuds/chickwriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ray has a little too much to drink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost

LOST

_"Consulate general of Canada. Consulat general du Canada…"_

"Fraser…" the quiet hiss of the word slips through the phone line. A pause in the automatic recitation. Was he there? Was Fraser really there, or like everything else tonight, was it only an illusion?

Before he can gather up the energy to speak again, the words continue.

_"We apologize that no one is available to take your call. If this is an emergency…"_

"Fraser…" Slurred word, slurred name…Ray hangs up the phone before the message finishes. He needs to talk to Fraser and Fraser's not answering the phone.

Ronnie. That was the ticket: Ronnie and his new boyfriend, Omar the limo driver. Omar offered to take them partying now that the bar was closed. Lots of free booze left over from his last gig schlepping around a semi-famous rock star. Ray didn't want to leave the goat behind, parked not two blocks from the bar. Not that it was a *bad* bar; as bars go, it was really in a decent neighborhood. It was just that he couldn't leave the car. That's why he'd parked it so close. Except, now, he couldn't find it. Couldn't find the goat. Couldn't find Fraser. Both of them were lost. Omar would take him to Fraser, though. He had to.

"Ray, let us take you home." Ronnie's voice penetrated the fog that was Ray's brain.

"No. I have to find Fraser. I lost him. I have to find him."

Wherever, man," Omar says, island accent giving the words a Bob Marley twist. "I be ready to party. You just tell me where to drive."

"Canada," Ray says and collapses into the back seat.

Hours, or maybe days later, Ronnie shakes Ray awake. "Hey, dude, we're here. You want I should knock on the door?"

"No, got it covered." Ray waves his hand, brandishing a well-worn credit card. "Don't leave home without it."

"You sure? I can take you home--"

"Got it," Ray insists, scrabbling to get out of the car. "I can do this." He stumbles to the front door, wiggles the credit card against the lock. It doesn't open. Ray touches the mechanism. Still feels the same. Maybe it's just him that's different.

He tries again. The lock stubbornly resists. "Won't open," he whispers, leaning his head against the wood. "Fraser…" The name slips out, unbidden, too quiet for even Ray to hear.

The door swings open, revealing the Mountie on the other side.

"Ray, you're drunk."

The mild voice holds no reproach, only states a fact. Fraser takes Ray by the arms and helps him inside, down the hall to the dimly lit parlor, letting him fall onto the small sofa.

"Fraser, I lost the goat." _And I lost *you*_, he thinks. L_ost you when I told that kid with the gun that I couldn't die, because then, I wouldn't be able to tell my partner how much I love--stop, Kowalski. You can't say it now. You had to say it then, but not now._

A hand goes up, thumb brushing eyebrow in the semi-dark.

"I'll help you, Ray, but please tell me why you've done this. Why are you drunk?"

Ray concentrates on the words, trying to read emotion. There's nothing there, no accusation, just concern.

"Not telling. Can't. Find my car. Promise I won't drive."

Fraser leans towards Ray, smooths back the spiky blond hair. A caress? "You only do this when you're hurting, Ray. What is it? Did Stella--"

He's beginning to feel like the Berlin wall - chunks of him breaking, exposing what's been hidden. He knows Fraser won't give up. Ray's so afraid.

"Not Stella. Promise me that you'll help me find my car, Fraser."

Ray tries to hold on to the only thing that makes sense, because Fraser looks too good now. Casual, rumpled, approachable. All sleepiness and warm fuzzies. Ray just wants to brush up against Fraser, let it all go. But he can't.

"If I tell you I know where your car is, Ray, will you tell me why you felt you had to drink yourself into oblivion?"

Oblivion, yeah, that was it. It was easier to forget. Forget the whole liquor-soaked night, the whole miserable day. The fact that that for several long minutes, Stanley Raymond Kowalski faced death at the hands of a thirteen-year-old gangbanger with nothing to lose, and that before being rescued by Jack Huey, had admitted his feelings out loud for everyone to hear. Everyone except the Mountie…who for once, was at his regular job and wasn't there to rescue his partner.

Ray shudders, the words tumble from his mouth, unbidden, unwanted, but necessary. "Thing is, Fraser," he whispers. "All I could see was that gun. I had no choice. I could die, still a liar, still a con job. Or I could face the disco music." He looks up at Fraser with a plea in his eyes, begging silently for understanding. "I'd rather disco than die a con job, Fraser."

Fraser moves into Ray's field of vision, yeah, a vision of Mountieness--the only thing keeping Ray hanging on. The sound of keys jangling breaks the quiet. Keys?

Ray looks up, eyes focusing for the first time since he entered the Consulate. Keys. His keys. On his key ring. Dangling from Fraser's hand.

"One of the patrol officers called me, Ray. He recognized your car. When he couldn't find you, he called me to come get it. You'd parked in a tow zone."

"I lost the car, Fraser."

"Is that the only thing you lost, Ray?" Fraser asks quietly.

Ray shakes his head, a slow sorrowful movement. "No," he whispers, the word sliding through the silence. "I lost you, Fraser. You were there, then I lost you."

Fraser moves closer, his hand slides across the back of Ray's neck, presses a soft kiss to his partner's mouth. "I wasn't ever lost, Ray. I'm right here. I'll always be right here. Let's go get your car."  



End file.
